


We Pick Ourselves Undone

by sutherlins



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Canon Divergence - Captain America: The Winter Soldier, M/M, PTSD, Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, WinterFalcon - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-08
Updated: 2016-10-08
Packaged: 2018-08-20 05:40:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8237989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sutherlins/pseuds/sutherlins
Summary: Set before CA:TWS. A recently discharged Sam and a freshly escaped Bucky meet long before Steve Rogers ever finds himself in DC. Together they try and rebuild their lives. (Then they fuck.)





	

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  All of your flaws and all of my flaws, they lie there hand in hand  
> Ones we’ve inherited, ones that we learn  
> They pass from man to man  
> There’s a hole in my soul  
> I can’t fill it, I can’t fill it  
> There’s a hole in my soul  
> Can you fill it? Can you fill it?  
> 
> 
>    
>  **Potential Triggers:** This fic has references to dissociation, panic attacks, and PTSD. Although mild, if those are things that might cause you some discomfort, maybe skip this :* 

The first night he attempts to attend a meeting, he makes it as far as the flagpole outside. Stands and watches the stars and stripes blowing wild in the wind, ignoring the pelting rain, and the small crowd making their way into the veterans center.  
  
The rain stops.  
  
Bucky catches his breath.  
  
He goes home.  
  
A week later his phone goes off, loud and jarring and waking him with a fright from another day-sleep, reminding him of the meeting in a few hours. Mussed hair, an empty growling stomach, and a messy apartment are the most obvious signs of how bad he’s been lately, an outward show of how dark it’s been in his head. He forces himself off the couch, throwing on the first clothes he finds, and after struggling to make it stay flat, he ties his hair back in a bun and heads out.  
  
Bucky doesn’t allow himself to stop from the second he steps off the bus until he’s inside the medical center. Even a moment's pause would give him an excuse to turn back, to lock the door of his shitty apartment, close the curtains, and forget the world exists.  
  
The V.A. isn’t as intimidating as he had built it up to be in his head. He finds himself in a wide corridor, wooden walls, with soft lighting. It’s calm, smells like coffee and rain. It’s oddly comforting too, and he’s surprised to find he doesn’t immediately want to run. Signs on the walls like the one he spotted in the grocery store a month before advertise the meeting,

_‘Were you in Military? Struggling to cope?’_

The sign asks and he follows the arrows below it, letting it lead him around the corridors of the building and into a large hall. It’s busy already, people mingling around, finding seats or making coffee. He’s relieved to see that although people seem to be chatting softly amongst themselves, no one is forcing conversation with anyone. He slips past the crowd gathered at the doorway, foregoing the drinks and cookies, and slides into the back row.  
  
The room falls from the low murmur into a silence as a man stands in the front row, making his way to a small podium at the front of the room. Bucky watches as the man turns back to the audience and oh, he’s pretty.  
  
The man's hands shake slightly, his fingers tapping along to a beat only he can hear onto the podium where he stands before he clears his throat with a small cough.  
  
He can see it now that he’s looking for it. The telltale signs. The man obviously tries hard to hide it, but a sadness clings to him, just like it does with Bucky. It’s in the way he walks, a weight on his shoulders - hung low, making him seem shorter than he probably is, as though he’s trying to curl up into himself and disappear. The man's face, although warm, has a permanent scowl marring his features, like he knows something terrible is just about to happen.  
  
Bucky knows that feeling well.  
  
He watches as the man slowly takes a sip of water, a bead of sweat falling down his temple and god, Bucky would give anything to see this stranger smile. He bets it’d be beautiful, imagines he has the kind of smile that makes birds fly.  
  
“Hey there.” His voice low, but carries across the room with a sense of authority that’s impossible to ignore. Bucky finds he’s sitting straighter, eager to hear whatever the man says next. “Some of you guys already know me, but I’ll introduce myself again. I’m Sam,”  
  
Sam. The pretty man has a name.  
  
“I was a pararescue, did two tours. Lost some friends, almost lost myself, and I mean that both over there, and when I got home.” He pauses, an almost imperceivable beat in his speech before he pushed on. “Normally I don’t lead a group, but Gail had a prior engagement so you lucky bastards are stuck with me for tonight.” A chuckle rises out around the room and Bucky feels the tension fall a little. The row of seats in front of him is empty, so he silently moves forward, eager to get even a little bit closer to Sam.  
  
The evening goes well, and no one pulls Bucky on stage so he doesn’t have to give the edited version of events he’d practiced in his head during the bus ride. People stand and share stories when they feel like it. Most of the time, no one even mentions war. They mention fights with their partners, panicking in the grocery store, or other seemingly mundane moments from their week. Throughout the night everyone relaxes a little.  
  
The woman to his left who had been tearing the paper around her water bottle into tiny strips, laughs as she shares a good memory of a friend she lost in Iraq. A man at the front jokes with Sam that if he wanted to lead a group again he better bring the good cookies like Gail always does, then breaks down in tears minutes later sharing his panic attack caused by a car backfiring.  
  
It is a strange night.  
  
Exhausting, a little bit overwhelming, but Bucky feels lighter than he had in months. These people would never understand his shitstorm of a life, but they share something.  
  
The group finishes up and people start to say their goodbyes, so Bucky stands, wanting to get away before the rush of people surround him. He isn’t fast enough, and as he turns out of his chair a figure stood with an outstretched hand.  
  
The pretty man.  
  
The evening had been intense and Bucky struggles to recall his name.  
  
“Sam Wilson.” He introduces himself, and Bucky repeats it over in his head, committing it to memory. “You new around here?” Bucky reaches out with his still gloved hands, shaking politely and giving a non-committal shrug as an answer. “I just feel like I know everyone who comes here, and I think I’d remember your face.” Bucky tries to not blush, he didn’t even know he could still blush, but he feels it rise up his neck. ‘Stop it’ he thinks, admonishing himself, there is no way pretty pararescue Sam Wilson is flirting with him.  
  
“New in town,” Bucky lies easily.

  
“Okay, sure,” Sam answers, obviously picking up on the lie but not pushing. “I need to clear up but then I’m heading for a slice of pizza, I know the best places, I can give you the local secrets.” He leans closer, whispering the last part, goosebumps spreading across Bucky’s neck at the sound of his voice. Shit. Maybe he is flirting. Bucky panics. His arm feels heavy like it’s made of steel and he can’t move it, his mouth dries up and he feels his heart thump in his chest, beating so hard he swears it hurts.  
  
“I can’t. I have to feed my cats.” He answers, backing away. Cats? He thinks to himself, he doesn’t even have a cat. He keeps moving, trying to put distance between himself and this man who is so obviously good. Good in a way that shines in his eyes and seeps into the people around him, but Bucky is a black hole, and he’d devour Sam’s goodness. It’s what he does.  
  
“Okay,” Sam says again, easy, light. “I’ll see you here next week,” Sam says, eyebrow arched and a small smile playing on his lips. He speaks it like an order, and Bucky nods, agreeing before he realises what he is doing.  
  
As soon as he leaves the building he runs straight past the bus stop, heading home, desperate to work off the energy that seems to run through him just with a handshake and a few words with Sam.  


* * *

  
The pattern repeats for a few weeks. Bucky would turn up, sitting first at the back of the room, until after a few sessions he was front row, close to Sam. Still not joining in the discussion, but a part of it somehow. He makes coffee for new people, he knows who had kids, who has struggled that week, who is making good strides in their recovery.  
  
About a month after joining, he is waiting on the meeting to start when Sam slides into the seat beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder. Bucky wants to shake him off and simultaneously lean further into his touch.  
  
“You feel like sharing tonight?” Bucky knows he must look like a deer in headlights, but there was no pressure in Sam’s question, he could say no and no one would be mad. A quick look around the room tells him it is a quiet night, just people he had come to know sit in the chairs. Sam stares at him, waiting. He can’t vocalise his thoughts, a tiny nod was all he can do and Sam smiles so wide, looking proud, Bucky feels his heart race and his worries are soothed. Sam tells Gail and she gives Bucky an encouraging smile as she stands to start the meeting, inviting Bucky to start them off.  
  
“My name is Bucky, I was a prisoner of war.” He pauses, regulating his breathing the way he did when he found himself in a sniper's nest, but it isn’t working, he is in too deep and it’s all too much and he can’t cope. A warm hand squeezes above his knee and Bucky looks down to see Sam’s slender fingers still resting on his thigh, a grounding sensation he doesn’t want to stop. He looks up at Sam and is encouraged by a nod and a smile to continue.  
  
“I was rescued and relatively unharmed. Part of me wanted to go home, get out of the war and escape it all, but there was a small group of us, and we were… we were a great team.” He pauses again, thankful that he is still sitting in his chair and not on full view of everyone behind the podium.  
  
He tries not to think of the Howling Commandos, of Steve, so he pushes on. “We were on a mission, it turned bad. I fell, got captured again, lost an arm. Lost everyone on that op.” He has more to say, more to explain, but the words catch in his throat and the words that want to come out of his mouth are cold and clinical. Bitter tears sting at his eyes. He shakes his head, he’d said enough. He barely hears Gail thanking him for sharing or the words of the next person as they stand, sharing a little of their own story.  
  
“You did really well. The first time I got up and shared I puked as soon as I was alone.” Sam laughs after Gail finishes the meeting. He was making it easier, like he always does. “I feel like there’s more to your story.” He waits, giving Bucky the chance to decide whether or not he is going to open up.  
  
“There is,” Bucky twists his hands, his voice barely above a whisper, “Sam, do you want to go for some food?”  
  
“I can't,” Sam says quickly. Bucky’s face falls, he tries to mask it, but knows he isn’t doing a great job. “I’ve got to feed my cats.” Then Sam is laughing and telling Bucky to collect the chairs while he clears the room.  
  
Half an hour later they’re being shown to a booth at the back of a small restaurant. Sam had led them to a narrow little Italian place about five minutes from the medical center. It is old, yellowing photos frame the walls, and it has a stucco ceiling so sharp it looks like it would hail down on them. The tables are covered in checkered red and white fabric, with low candles giving a warm glow and making it easy to forget about the pouring rain outside. The tables are separated with dark wooden lattices, giving privacy and making them feel even more alone.  
  
Arcangelo Corelli plays quietly in the background, that and the low hum of diners talking, glasses being cleared and people laughing all relax Bucky, and he sees why Sam likes this place, especially after a session at the V.A. It is like stepping out of time for a moment. The decor hasn’t been changed from the 1960’s, but it feels nice.  
  
It feels safe.  
  
The waitress comes over, taking their order, her smile lingering a little too long when she looks at Sam and fuck, Bucky has no reason to be jealous. He has no right to feel that way either, but it boils inside him anyway. He wants to stand and say he is here with Sam Wilson, not them.  
  
“So, what’s your story?” Sam asks. Bucky doesn't know where to start. The ex-assassin for Hydra part or the born in 1917 fact. Maybe he should jump in the deep end and say he knew Captain America when he was a skinny little guy full of rage and asthma. It was too much weird to throw at Sam Wilson so soon.  
  
“You go first, what’s Sam Wilson’s origin story?”  
  
“Origin Story? Hey, I like that. I was a superhero you know.” He laughs in a way that makes it obvious he is joking, but Bucky had heard snippets of stories during meetings.  He knew superheroes, Steve Rogers was his best friend and he’d fought with the Howling Commandos. Bucky has no doubt he is sitting across from a genuine superhero.  
  
“I did two tours, was assigned to the 58th rescue squadron. You know that part.”  
  
“Yeah.” Bucky knows, Bucky also knows that like him, Sam gave a highly redacted account of his time in the military.  
  
“We became test subjects for this thing called the Falcon project, Riley, my wingman, he-” Sam stops, drinking his water, and looking anywhere but Bucky. “Riley was hit by an RPG, middle of a mission, had to watch as he fell and there was nothing I could do to save him. Had to finish the damn mission. People would have died if we didn’t keep going but Riley didn’t just fall, Bucky, he was blasted to pieces and all I could do was watch. I didn’t last in the military for long after that.”  
  
“I’m sorry.” It doesn’t accurately sum up what Bucky wants to say. He is sorry for what the world has taken from Sam, sorry for everything that has ever hurt him.  
  
“What about you?” Sam is clearly done talking for the night, and Bucky doesn’t want to push too hard.  
  
“I can’t really explain, it’s a complicated story.”  
  
“Try me. I’m good with complicated.”  
  
“I can’t,” Bucky knows it is more than he can put into words. “I can show you, though. Tomorrow?”  
  
“If this is a ploy to get me on another date, you could just ask.”  
  
“Is this a date?”  
  
“We are sitting at a candlelit table for two drinking wine, and that waitress has been flirting with you all night and you haven't paid her a second glance.”  
  
“She was flirting with you!”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Yes.” They laugh and Bucky feels a little braver. “I’m not counting this as a date, you should know it’s a date first, get dressed nice for it, that's the proper way to do things. So go on, ask me on a date.”  
  
“Oh is that how it is, Buck?” Bucky urges himself not to blush at the ‘Buck’, the simple shortening of his nickname feeling intimate in a way he can’t describe.  
  
“Yeah, it is.”  
  
They go back to eating, neither of them giving in and asking first. They talk about trivial things for the rest of the meal, before fighting over who would pay. Bucky wins, but only because he shoves a handful of bills in the waitresses direction before Sam can get his card out of his wallet.  
  
They walk together towards Sam’s apartment, the conversation moving easily when Sam stops suddenly in the middle of the pavement. Bucky gets his first glance at Sam’s home.  
  
Suddenly nervous as though Sam might actually say no, he goes for it, the words coming out fast and all at once.  
  
“Sam, would you like to go on a date?”  
  
“I’d like that,” Sam ducks his head, “I’d like that a lot.”  
  
“Pick you up tomorrow then? Around one?”  
  
“See you then.”  
  
Bucky wants to kiss him, wrap Sam Wilson in his arms and cover him in love but Bucky steps back before he does, not quite ready for that. After walking away Sam shouts at his back, “What, no kiss?”  
  
“We haven’t even been on a date yet, Wilson.” The laugh he gets in response makes his heart sing and a smile grow on his face.

 

* * *

 

  
Maybe Sam didn't want to meet up with him, maybe he’d changed his mind, read up on the story of Bucky Barnes and decided it was too weird for him. If that is the case, though, Sam would have messaged, cancelled officially, even if it had come with an excuse. He wouldn’t leave Bucky to sit outside his apartment all day.  
  
It has been twenty minutes since they had arranged to meet and something doesn’t feel right. If he finds Sam and it turns out he just wanted to cancel he would leave, but he has to know everything was okay.  
  
The building he’d walked Sam to the night before is easy to find, but Bucky isn’t sure which apartment is Sam’s. It’s as though something in Bucky changes, and he lets the little part of the Winter Soldier that always lives in him to take over, the sharp mind of a hunter swallowing up Bucky and leading him through the locked main door of the building, and quickly managing to find Sam’s place.  
  
Bucky gives a sharp knock, listening for movement inside. Nothing. He knocks again, louder this time.  
  
“Bucky?”  A fear runs through Bucky when he hears the way Sam calls for him. Bucky picks the lock and is in the small apartment before Sam had a chance to call for him again. Bucky stands in the narrow hallway and yells Sam’s name.  
  
The door to the bathroom swings open, with Sam sitting on the floor behind it. Sam looks awful, bags under his eyes gave away that he had likely not slept much since they last spoke, and bloodshot eyes make it clear he’d been crying. His clothes, which normally fit nice, and were always clean and pressed, are the same ones he’d worn to the meeting the night before. Now they’re creased, dirty and hanging off his frame.  
  
His breathing is erratic, eyes wild and searching the room, never settling on one spot, not until Bucky slides down beside him, taking hold of his face and placing his hands gently on Sam’s cheeks. Sam makes eye contact with Bucky, the terror leaving his eyes a little, chest heaving as he tries to suck huge breaths in.  
  
“Slow, breathe with me,” Bucky says, trying to keep how scared he feels hidden. Sam is so often the show of strength in meetings it terrifies Bucky to see him like this, looking so small. Sam hides it well, but he is as fucked up as the rest of them and Bucky wants to cover him in kisses, make him never hurt again.  
  
Bucky breathes in slowly, releasing the breath after a few seconds. Sam tries to follow along and Bucky lets go of his face, placing a hand across his stomach. “Breathe deep, baby.” He whispers, leading Sam to breathe in once more, Bucky relaxing a little when he feels Sam’s stomach rise under his touch before he releases the air slowly in time with Bucky.  
  
Time passes and they stay on the floor, neither of them breaking the silence, Sam’s breathing finally settled, his hands no longer shaking, his eyes no longer wide with terror.  
  
Bucky stands, pulling Sam up from the floor with his metal arm, not even flinching at the weight of pulling the muscular soldier off the floor. Sam instantly falls into Bucky’s arms, mumbling an apology into Bucky’s neck. Bucky pulls him back before he can settle.  
  
“No. You don’t apologize for this, never with me. What happened Sam?”  
  
Sam takes his hand and leads him to the sofa, giving himself enough time to find the words.  
  
“I came home last night and switched on the TV, a commercial was playing for a new movie and something about it, it sent me back. Couldn’t calm down at all. I’m glad you showed up.” He scratches at the back of his neck and looks anywhere but at Bucky. “Oh shit. I forgot we were meeting, sorry.”  
  
“Not important, you okay now?”  
  
“Rough night is all. We can leave.” He jumps from the sofa, but his fake smile doesn't fool Bucky.  
  
“Sit,” Bucky says, pointing at the sofa and making his way through Sam’s apartment to the kitchen. He digs around the cabinets, looking for coffee or tea. Instead, he finds something better. He lights the stove, heating the milk to make some hot cocoa. By the time he returns to the living room, Sam has started to clear up the coffee table. Bucky pushed him back into the sofa. “Drink up, and leave that, my place is even worse.”  
  
“You don’t have to do this, Bucky.”  
  
“Shut up, Wilson,” Bucky says, flicking the TV to the History Channel.  
  
Sam wakes around an hour later, face pressed against Bucky’s shoulder. The thing that wakes him is an angry sounding Bucky shouting at the TV.  
  
“What a bunch of shit, that never happened. How is this the History Channel?”  
  
“What are you watching?”  
  
“Documentary on New York before the war, they are getting it all wrong.”  
  
“You an expert or something?”  
  
“Somewhat,” Bucky laughs, “You feeling any better?”  
  
“Yeah, sorry, I didn’t have the best night last night, helped to have someone here, though, someone watching my back.”  
  
“I get that.”  
  
“I ruined our date.”  
  
“You didn’t, we can still make it if we leave now but if you want to stay in and Netflix and chill, we can.”  
  
“You don’t know what that means do you?”  
  
“Yes.” He doesn’t.  
  
“Jesus.” Bucky knows he’d fucked up somehow but Sam is laughing and it’s perfect so he’ll take it. “Give me five minutes and I’ll be ready to leave.”

* * *

 

“A museum. You're bringing me to a museum on a date? You're such a nerd.” Sam laughs, staring up at the giant sculpture outside the Air and Space Museum.  
  
“We can leave.” Bucky half-jokes, but truthfully he is nervous about going inside.  
  
“Shut up, no, this is great, I love it here. I love y- I love it.”  
  
“Declarations of love on our first date? Bit much, Sammy.”  
  
“I’ll declare my foot up your ass.”  
  
“That doesn't make any sense,” Bucky shouts at Sam’s back, who had walked away from him. Bucky laughs and runs to catch up.  
  
“You don't make any sense.”  
  
“Yeah, you can say that again.”  
  
Bucky is getting more and more scared the closer they got to the exhibit. He wants to run and not look back. The idea of explaining everything to Sam is overwhelming and he hopes that Sam will understand. They walk up the steps and Bucky pulls his cap further down his face, desperate to hide from those around him.  
  
He walks quickly through the crowd, Sam right behind him, trying to look at the displays.  
  
Bucky stops abruptly and Sam bumps into the back of him, bouncing slightly as he finds his balance. Bucky doesn’t know how to say it, so he just points at the large piece of glass, his picture etched wide across it.  
  
“Shit.”  
  
An understandable response, Bucky thinks.

  
“Shit, Bucky. Bucky Barnes. Holy shit.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“James. Shit.”  
  
“That all you got.”  
  
“Fuck.”  
  
‘A symbol to the nation; a hero to the world. The story of Captain America is one of honor, bravery, and sacrifice.’  
  
The sound system blasts out the words to a story Bucky Barnes had lived. Honor, bravery, and sacrifice are words that Steve had worn well, carried the weight of them and made Bucky want to do better.  
  
Honor, bravery, and sacrifice don’t just sum up Steve, though. The Howling Commandos were all worthy of those words and even though he knows it would be painful, he wants to see them.  
  
Bucky pulls a still in shock Sam across the room, the pair finding themselves beneath the Howling Commandos display. The faces of the men he had fought with hang high above a row of mannequins, dressed in the uniforms they had worn a lifetime ago.  
  
A sudden memory hits Bucky. All of them on a mission, where, Bucky can’t quite grasp. It looks like every other camp they’d set up during the war. Although it’s foggy, like the memory of an old movie he’d seen, the realness of it hits him in the chest all at once.  
  
They are sitting around a camp, Dugan and Gabe arguing over who should cook. Falsworth standing and saying he would do it to shut them up, not realising that had been their plan all along. It twists something in his chest to see the clear memory of Gabe almost falling to the ground with laughter as Dugan held onto his shoulder. Falsworth swearing as he walked away from them all.  
  
He misses them.  
  
“Bucky?” Sam’s voice sounds muffled, like he’s in another room, shouting through a wall. It isn’t until Sam’s strong hand grips his shoulder that he snaps out of it.  
  
“Can we leave?”  
  
“Of course.”

  
  
They find themselves back at Sam’s place, ordering take out over the phone before settling in front of the TV, some home design program playing in the background going ignored by them both.  
  
“You probably have questions,” Bucky asks. Sam laughs, and it's beautiful.  
  
“A few, you don’t have to-”  
  
“It’s fine.”  
  
“Um, okay.” Sam opens a beer, swallowing it down before turning in his seat, his knees hitting Bucky’s and neither of them making any effort to break the small amount of physical contact between them. “I don’t know where to start.”  
  
Bucky stands and his heart races and Sam huffs at the break in contact. He feels the same way, but some stories are easier shown than told. Bucky pulls at the hem of his shirt, pulling it up and off himself, throwing it back over the sofa, followed by the glove he wears over his prosthetic.  
  
“Damn.”  
  
Bucky hates the arm, bright metal with the red star burnt on the side, a show of where they wanted his loyalties to be. He hates the skin around it - scarred, raised in bumps across his shoulder where metal joins flesh. The scars show how the metal part, the part that was one hundred percent Winter Soldier, visibly took over Bucky Barnes, infecting him. Some of the lines of scarring stretch further onto his chest, or across his shoulder blades, raised bumps and lines marring his skin.  
  
“The story you heard today was how it happened.” Bucky mumbles as he sits back down, not bothering to put his top back on, “I fell from the train, I’d already been given some serum, survived the fall, my arm didn’t though. They experimented and I lay there, strapped to a table and I thought to myself, ‘Steve came and found you last time, he’ll do it again. Any moment now the Commandos will rush the door and I’ll be home in New York before I know it.’”  
  
Sam links their fingers, flesh with flesh, saying nothing but keeping him grounded, not letting the memories pull him back.  
  
“Can you believe I thought that? I was so sure of it that I let them operate on the arm, with no fight, the pain was so intense it knocked me out. A few hours, or days later - it’s fuzzy - I realised no one was coming, the train was moving so fast even if they had stopped to bring my body home they wouldn’t have been able to find where I fell.”  
  
“You saved yourself, you’re here now.”  
  
“Yeah, how many years later, though? The things I did, Sam.” Bucky tries to pull his hand away but Sam places his other hand on top, the warm heat of it soothing, and Bucky bites back tears. “For years they would bring me out, point out someone they wanted gone, innocent people that were trying to make the world a better place and I’d murder them.”  
  
“You were a victim, Bucky, this wasn’t your fault. You did those things, yeah, and it’s important that you know that and admit that because if you don’t you’ll never heal, but you couldn’t have stopped it any more than the victims of what they made you could have stopped you.”  
  
“You really should take over from Gail, you’re a great counsellor,” Bucky jokes, deflecting but not trying to pull away from Sam’s touch anymore. Sam laughs, wide and beautiful and making it seem like everything would be okay. It gives him the strength to push on. “I was on a mission that brought me to DC, given the name of a politician that needed to be taken out of the picture. Walked through his house, and the man had an old gramophone, and this song was playing so loud, Flying Home it was called. I remembered dancing to it, remembered who I was. So I ran. Then once I had dealt with the memories, I started hunting Hydra, and I know they deserve it, but I’m still killing people, Sammy. My soul’s as marked up as my body.”  
  
“Your soul is beautiful. So are you.”  
  
“So, the scars.” Bucky rubs at them with his flesh hand, in a bid to hide what he could, “They aren’t going to be an issue for you?”  
  
Sam doesn’t answer straight away, instead, he stands, pulling his own top off and turning away from Bucky. For a second Bucky is confused before he sees Sam’s back. Bucky reaches forward before stopping himself.  
  
“Can I?” He asks.  
  
“Yeah.” Sam nods, voice small and quieter than he’d been all night.  
  
Bucky reaches his hand out, tracing two scars that stretched down Sam’s back, both running parallel to Sam’s spine, around 10 inches long, raised, and looking painful even though they were no doubt healed.  
  
“When the RPG hit Riley, the blast didn’t get me, but the explosion was so hot, the wings fused against my skin. I didn’t even notice until I landed. I was light headed and screaming for Riley and someone shouted about the blood on my back.”  
  
Sam shivers a little at the soft touch. “I told them to forget about it, the blood must have been Riley’s, he was so close, but then I tried to take my wings off, passed out and woke up in the hospital bay.”  
  
Bucky traces the scars with his pointer finger, delicate and almost not touching, following one scar before switching to the other.  
  
“You’re beautiful, like an angel, Sam Wilson.”  
  
“Did that cheesy shit work back in World War two, old man?” Sam turns to face Bucky, his face smiling but tears still stuck in his eyes, ready to fall over.  
  
“Did it work just now?”  
  
“Maybe.”  
  
“It totally did, and that’s what matters.”  
  
Bucky kisses him then, at last.  
  
Sam leans into his touch, and Bucky takes his bottom lip and sucks, making Sam gasp around him. Sam moves, walking Bucky backwards until he bumps against the wall, Sam pressing hard against him as they continue to make out, hurried and frenzied like horny teenagers with no control. Bucky moans, obscene little noises that make Sam swear into the kiss.  
  
Sam pulls back first, his forehead resting against Bucky’s, eyes closed, just breathing in the moment. It’s intense and real and almost too much for them both.  
  
A loud bang makes them both jump, two soldiers alert at once. The noise rings out again and they laugh when they realize the pizza has arrived.  
  
Bucky wants to ignore the pizza and continue to make out, but then Sam pulls a piece of pizza from the box, the cheese dripping in the most indecent way.  
  
They can make out later.

* * *

  
The third home decor program comes on when Bucky realizes there must be an entire TV channel dedicated to putting paint on walls. The future is wild.  
  
Sam mutes the show and turns to Bucky, throwing his pizza crust back into the box.  
  
“Bucky, what you said about taking over from Gail, were you being serious? Because it’s something I’ve been thinking about, there's a permanent position at the VA being advertised.”  
  
“Of course I was, Sammy, you’d be amazing at that. You understand, you’ve lived it. You’d be so incredible. You should go for it, baby.”  


* * *

  
The pattern of hot make-out sessions, VA meetings, individual therapy sessions, and exploring Washington DC together continue.  
  
Sam gets the job and starts leading meetings, his own recovery getting better too. The VA starts asking him to do more and more and he soon becomes a huge part of the center, a huge part of other people's recovery. He only falls apart on really bad days, when it is just him and Bucky alone in one of their apartments.  
  
Bucky gets a job, too. He becomes a personal trainer at a gym. Most of the regular gym goers know he’s a vet, and ask no questions. Bucky can still pull off the Winter Soldier scowl, and when new folk turn the conversation from sit ups to the war, the growl falls into place, scaring people and stopping them from pushing too far.  
  
They fall into an easy pattern - they have good days, bad days, and days that make it seem like it’s pointless to go on, but they have each other, they have therapy, and they are starting to build their lives again.  
  
About six months after Bucky’s initial night at the VA, Bucky turns up just as Sam is closing out a meeting. He has on one of his gym outfits - a tight top and ridiculously short shorts. He’s being fidgety and weird, putting away the chairs and tidying up, still not having said hello to Sam, or explaining why he is meeting him at work.  
  
“This can’t go on much longer,” Bucky finally says, the last of the mess cleared up, just the two of them standing in the center of an empty hall.  
  
Sam’s feels like his heart stops beating for a second, his throat tight and his mind going to the worst place. Bucky wants to break up.  
  
Bucky shuffles from side to side, taking the dirty coffee cups out of Sam’s hands, still not saying anything.  
  
“Bucky,” Sam says, his voice commanding and shocking Bucky into staying still and making eye contact with Sam.  
  
“Okay. Just here me out, okay?”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“So things have been fun, really great, like, wow, you know? And then it’s been getting better, you think so? I think so. You’ve been doing well, I’ve been doing well. And things are good. Great for me actually, they seem good for you too. And you look, great, that’s not got anything to do with it, but it’s a fact. You’re super hot.”  
  
Nonsense, he’s speaking utter nonsense and it's endearing and maybe the cutest he’s seen his boyfriend look, but he’s speaking so fast Sam can’t get a word in and the knot is still in Sam’s chest, worried about where this is going. Sam stares, waits it out and eventually Bucky speaks, his word falling out his mouth all at once.  
  
“Would you like to go on a date with me? A real one, all fancy like, suits, and stuff, I'd like to start going steady with you, be able to introduce you as my boyfriend. If that’s okay.”  
  
“Man, I have the cutest boyfriend in the world,” Sam says. Bucky blushes, deep and red and unforgiving. “I can’t believe I've been wrongly assuming we’ve been dating all this time.”  
  
“But we didn’t discuss it?”  
  
“Yeah, but it was implied.”  
  
“Implied dating? The future is barbaric.”  
  
“You get so cute when you go all old-timey.”  
  
“You get so cute all the time.”  


* * *

  
He’s nervous, but he looks good, or at least he thinks he does. He hopes Sam will think so too.  
  
He hasn’t worn a suit in years, it just feels wrong, too human. Even though they had apparently been dating already, Bucky still wants to go on a fancy date, he wants to spoil Sam, and dress up nice for him. The dark grey three-piece fits him well, and he fusses longer than necessary, unsure of what to do with his hair. He hasn’t been bothered by the length before now.  
  
The asset had his hair cut when it became a problem, otherwise, it didn’t matter. The Bucky of the nineteen forties had always made sure his hair looked good. Smart, presentable. Before the war, he could charm a dame and her grandmother, and probably her grandfather, too.  
  
Now his hair is a mess. He isn’t sure if he wants to cut it short again either, that would have felt like trying to be who he was then, not who he is now.  
  
Frustrated by the fact that the man in the mirror looks nothing like someone worthy of dating Sam Wilson, he grabs his knife, pulling a chunk of hair away from his head, ready to slice through the dark locks.  
  
His phone ringing startles him, but he resists the urge to smash the phone in his hand and answers the call, letting the knife crash into the bathroom sink.  
  
“Bucky?” It’s Sam's voice, sounding panicked. “Bucky, it’s Sam, you home? I’m at the door, I’ve been knocking for ten minutes.”  
  
It isn’t the first time he had spaced out, singularly focusing on something trivial for so long he loses chunks of time, but it had been happening less and less lately. He glances in the mirror again and realised he had been crying. He doesn’t know when he started, but the red eyes would be difficult to hide from Sam. He hangs up without speaking and with a heavy heart he slides back the two locks, opening the door to let Sam in.  
  
“Buck, you running late?- oh, baby.” Sam takes Bucky’s face in his hands, wiping at the tears, the wet on his cheeks making Bucky realise he was still crying.  
  
“It’s stupid,” Bucky answers before Sam could ask what was wrong.  
  
“What is it?”  
  
“It’s the hair, I don’t know what to do.”  
  
Sam reaches across him, taking the comb from the counter, running it through Bucky’s hair, the gentle movements stopping Bucky’s tears and calming him down. Sam pulls his hair back, wrapping it in a bobble at the nape of his neck, pulling it into a bun.  
  
“Gorgeous.” Sam declares, admiring both his own handy work and his boyfriend. Bucky turns in the small bathroom and takes note of Sam in his suit.

  
“You look beautiful, Sam.” Sam kisses his nose and walked away.  
  
“Okay let’s go so I can show off my man” Sam yells from the hallway.  
  
“No, I’m gonna show off my man.”  
  
“Yeah you are.”  


* * *

  
They are barely through the door of Sam’s apartment after their date, and Sam is pinned against the wall, the heavy weight of Bucky pushing him back. Bucky’s head is tilted down, buried in Sam’s neck while he covers him in kisses. Bucky wants to pull open his shirt, destroy the buttons of it and rip the fabric off him so he can kiss down Sam’s chest, bite at his collarbones and touch him all over. He pauses before he can move to open Sam’s shirt, suddenly nervous. His hands stay on Sam’s hips, snaked under his shirt, fingers shaking just a little, tickling at Sam’s sides as he tries to control his racing brain.  
  
Bucky has never done this before. Before the war he had only stepped out with girls, taking them out and giving them a polite kiss on the cheek at the end of a date that normally included other people.  
  
This is new and terrifying and amazing. The world has taken so much from Bucky and it hurts so much but he’d go through it all ten times over to be in this very moment with Sam Wilson. Knowing that, however, doesn’t make the nerves any easier to dispel.  
  
Sam slides a hand down Bucky’s cheek, his thumb scoring a line across his jaw. Bucky flinches a little at the contact but forces himself not to pull away, the touch comforting and the warmth of Sam’s hand making him lean into his touch, resting his face on Sam’s hand. Sam moves his hand down, pinching at Bucky’s chin, tilting his head so that Bucky is staring up at him, and he leans down, his kiss gentle, chaste. They’d had more intense make-out sessions before but this is different.  
  
“I love you,” Bucky sighs into Sam’s kiss. “I love you so fucking much.”  
  
“I know you do, baby, I love you too.”  
  
Bucky feels his insides melt at the way Sam calls him baby, and Bucky wants to hear it again and is desperate to make Sam feel the same way he does, so he untangles himself from their embrace, falling quickly to his knees.  
  
Bucky, although inexperienced, is eager, and looks up at Sam with heavy lids and adoration. From their months of heavy make out sessions, Bucky knows how Sam’s breath catches in his throat when Bucky touches his lower stomach, so he wants to see how he’d react when more than his hands move across his tight abs.  
  
Bucky rips Sam’s shirt open, breathing heavy onto Sam’s exposed skin. The hot air makes Sam’s skin a little damp before he mouths at it, licking and kissing his way across his body, only pausing to mutter whispers of love onto Sam. Sam reacts just as Bucky thought he would, sighing deep and contented and the sound makes Bucky’s heart soar.  
  
Pulling at Sam’s trousers, he opens the button and eases the zipper down, biting at the waistband of his briefs while dragging the material down to release Sam’s dick, half way to hard already. Bucky feels saliva pool in his mouth, desperate to put his mouth on Sam.  
  
Bucky bites his lip. It’s his nerves is all, he never intends to try and look sexy but that is the outcome nonetheless.  
  
“Fuck,” Sam moans, not looking away from Bucky, his hands fisting at his sides. Bucky realizes what he’d done and smirks a little, releasing his lip from his teeth, letting his mouth fall into a perfect ‘O’. Lips reddened and swollen, he looks filthy staring up at Sam like that, and that image, along with Bucky’s slow strokes up his length - rounding the tip with slow thumb strokes, before pulling back down his length - leaves Sam feeling weak at the knees, and fighting to urge to beg for more.  
  
There’s no need to beg because Bucky is just as desperate, his hand starting to move faster, his grip a little tighter. Bucky can’t hold back any longer, and he licks at Sam, tracing the length of him from the head of his dick down to his balls. Sam jerks his hips and Bucky pulls back quickly.  
  
“Sorry, am I doing it wrong?”  
  
“No, baby, fuck no, you’re doing good.”  
  
It is all the encouragement Bucky needs, opening his mouth wider and taking Sam as deep as he can. The heavy weight of Sam’s dick in his mouth is like nothing he has ever experienced before, and logically he knows that nothing is touching him and he shouldn’t be getting hard from sucking someone else off, but the tenting in his trousers says differently. Each moan from above him shoots to his own dick, his stomach pulled tight, his brain pushing him on.  
  
Bucky manages to take a few inches, licking underneath, moving his tongue in a circle. His fears about being inexperienced disappear when Sam swears, inhaling sharply again as Bucky licks at one spot in particular. He pulls out before trying to take more of him in his mouth.  
  
Sam utters Bucky’s name again, his hand sliding down Bucky’s head, snaking through his hair. If Bucky hadn’t already been kneeling he’d have collapsed to the floor, the feeling of Sam’s hand tight in his hair making his head light, making his mouth work even harder in a desperate attempt to make Sam feel good.  
  
Bucky can tell Sam is close, and can’t help but whine when Sam pulls his hair, tugging him away. Sam keeps pulling until Bucky is standing again, Sam’s dick pressed against him, slick and wet. Bucky wants it inside him again.  
  
“It will be, Bucky,” Sam whispers, and laughs at the way Bucky’s ears turn pink.  
  
“I said that out loud?” Bucky asks, his voice hoarse and sounding strange to his own ears.  
  
“Yeah,” Sam says as he strips Bucky out of his clothes, walking them backwards through the apartment and into Sam’s bedroom.  
  
Bucky falls onto the bed, pushing himself towards the pillows by his elbows, smiling up at Sam. His chest is tight, his breathing heavy, it’s just nerves, sure, but the good kind.  
  
Sam walks naked through the room, winking at Bucky as he slips into the bathroom, returning with something that he drops onto the bed before crawling towards Bucky.  
  
They manage to do nothing more than kiss for a little bit, adjusting to each other, their nakedness more than enough to add a new thrilling level of excitement to their kisses. It’s not until Sam’s hand strokes across Bucky’s chest, making him arch his hips up that they get their urgency back.  
  
Bucky reaches for the bottle on the bed, his eyes begging Sam to fuck him. He manages to open the bottle without looking away from Sam, emptying enough onto Sam’s hands, biting along Sam’s ear, just because he can, because Sam is his fucking boyfriend and they can do that sort of thing. It makes him want to scream Sam's name loud enough so the neighbours know who he belongs to.  
  
It feels like they’re flying but when Sam touches him it grounds him instantly, a gasp escaping from his lips.  
  
When Sam’s slicked fingers start to tease his hole, his body stops fighting against the sensations, pleasure taking over. It makes him lean down, instinctively doing what his body wanted, pressing his weight into Sam’s hands.

It feels wrong and somehow right at the same time. His entire body goes tight, every muscle pulling taught, from fear? Excitement? He’s not sure, maybe a mix of both. Sam’s voice is in his ear, telling him to breathe and relax.  
  
“You’re amazing.” Bucky doesn’t know why he says it but he finds himself whispering it over and over, his only thought while his mind turns soft and foggy.

  
Bucky’s eyes shoot comically wide when a finger slips inside, fast, fluid and meeting no resistance. One of Sam's slender fingers slides in past the knuckle and Bucky whimpers, needing more. Bucky moves his head until he finds Sam’s, so desperate to get his lips on him, he bites along his jaw, licking and breathing in Sam, and covering his soft shoulders with kisses while he feels himself being worked open.  
  
Bucky begs, hearing how desperate he sounds, Sam’s name whispered between pleads and bargainings.  
  
Sam acquiesces, at last, lining himself up with Bucky, moving slowly, but deep. Bucky takes every inch and their moans seem to leave their mouth in unison, small whimpers hiding the intensity they both felt.  
  
Bucky finally relaxes fully, his body too exhausted to fight against it anymore and it only makes the sensations that more overwhelming. He looks up into Sam’s eyes and has a sudden realization - Sam Wilson is _inside_ him, surrounding him, shattering his brain into hazy pieces. Sam is an angel, one of the only truly good people Bucky has ever met in his life and he somehow wants Bucky. It doesn’t compute in his mind that someone so wonderful could want him. Not knowing how to word his sudden realization he tries to show it instead.  
  
Bucky pulls up his hips before bringing them down to meet Sam, delighting in the way it makes Sam moan, the sound filthy and urging them both on. He falls back onto Sam slowly, their bodies moving together, easy, relaxed, each movement deliberate and perfect. There’s no rush, no end in sight, just the two of them together.  
  
Sam starts to move faster at last, slowly pulling back out before burying himself deep inside Bucky once again. It hurts a little, but in the way that makes him want more, and he finds himself begging again, pleading with Sam to bury himself inside him over and over again.  
  
Bucky pulls the weight of Sam on top of him, wrapping his legs around Sam's hips, urging him deeper. He whispers in Sam's ear confessions of love and almost cries when he hears those same words repeated back to him.  
  
He wraps his hands, both flesh and metal, around Sam’s back, stroking the scar tissue, telling Sam he’s an angel and trying desperately not think about how that must make him the devil.  
  
Sam thrusts harder this time, Bucky feeling the pressure of his dick being rubbed between their stomachs, his balls tight, pulling, and ready, everything overwhelming. It’s intense and raw and all too much. Hard thrusts and gentle hands, whispered words of love and hair being yanked. They never want it to end but neither can hold back much longer.  
  
Sam whispers a warning in his ear before he bites down hard on Bucky’s shoulder, spilling himself inside of him with one final hard thrust, hitting that spot inside Bucky that makes his toes curl and his vision turn into a blinding light. He feels his release, spurting between them, coating both of their bodies.  
  
Their orgasms drain them both, neither able to move much further than sliding into a more comfortable embrace, side by side, still entangled, Sam still inside Bucky.  
  
Bucky is exhausted but he wants to kiss Sam, unable to manage anything more than light pecks across his skin but the small sighs from Sam are enough of a reward for Bucky’s efforts.  
  
Their sighs of contentment turn to one last gasp as Sam pulls out, leaving Bucky empty, their hands clutching at each other in a desperate attempt to make up for the loss in connection.  
  
Neither of them moves. The mess can wait.

 

  
Bucky wakes the next morning and rolls over in the bed. Sam’s tiny snores fill the room and Bucky lets himself stare for a moment, taking in Sam’s beauty as the memories of the night before come flooding back.  
  
He slides from the bed, making sure not to disturb Sam, covering him with the duvet and placing a small kiss on his temple. Sam moves his head into the kiss, but quickly falls back into gentle snoring, undisturbed. Bucky makes them breakfast and climbs back into bed.

 

Life is good.

 

* * *

 

  
  
_A few months later an out of breath Sam runs through their now shared apartment, sweat marks covering his shirt, chest still heaving._  
  
_“You’ll never guess who I met on my run today.”_

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks and gross kisses to [hermionesmydawg](http://archiveofourown.org/users/hermionesmydawg/pseuds/hermionesmydawg/) for once again attempting to fix my shit.  
> Title from [this song.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1E36WU9Wzf4&sns=fb)  
> Thanks for reading, [come say hi over on tumblr :)](http://sutherlins.tumblr.com/)


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